Complementary
by hachiko-ai
Summary: In which we see how the clothing fits the lives of those who wear them, not just the curves.
1. Aya

A/N: Dear reader,

I hope it isn't wrong for me to assume that you all see how important fasion/clothes/accessories are to the story of _Gals_? In this little collection of one shots, I'll be attempting to show you all a few insights into the personalities of the guys and gals by the clothes and accessories they wear. There won't be romance, but there will be feelings. There won't be drama, but there will be angst. There won't be much of a plot, but there most certainly will be a story. And, hopefully, there will be you. Reading. Please do enjoy.

-Hachi

* * *

**Aya**

_Camouflage: A leopard's interpretation of its own spots._

When certain students at her school had called for the banishment of uniforms as a means to the end of the stifling of individualism and creativity amongst students ("Stop being such a hardass dictator, Naka-teach! When did wearing a choker become a crime?"), Aya had secretly been glad that the faculty had remained firm on their stance of loyalty to tradition and order ("When you began using them for an argument and an excuse to put off doing your work. Now take that thing off your neck, shut your mouth, and finish that quiz, Kotobuki!"). The plainness of the button-up color shirt, skirt, and loafers would, thankfully, remain the norm.

With the same outfit among many, it gave Aya a feeling of being able to get lost in the crowd. She liked the temporary loss of competition, where no one really won and certainly no one lost.

Besides, pants, jeans in particular, made her _uncomfortable_. They felt tight, form-fitting, and revealing because girls her age and girls her style were supposed to wear jeans tight, form-fitting, and revealing. The modest, secluded Aya found she disliked this immensely. It felt too forward to her: letting complete strangers memorize her honest curves, to be appreciated or scorned. Aya hated the feeling that people she may never know were passing judgment on what she was. Jeans and she were different lyrics for the same song.

Shorts were simply out of the question.

Aya made exceptions though; she did wear jeans, at times. Ran was to blame for that. When it came to shopping, her high-school flunking friend was a genius, one that was determined to share her gift, whether it was welcomed or not. Sometimes they were skirts, and Aya always breathed an immense sigh of relief when those were the items Ran chose to thrust in her arms.

"Try 'em on and let's see how awesome you look!" she would say, already knowing Aya was mentally calculating the needed funds out of her wallet because they always were simply perfect.

Other times, there were jeans that her style-conscious friend saw: _aggressive, slim, and outrageous_, Aya would think, _just like Ran_.

"They're too perfect for you, Aya!" was this Ran's argument against all that the prim girl loathed and avoided, and Aya simply couldn't tell her 'no.'

She hated jeans because she was a coward, and she wasn't able to tell Ran such things because she was that same coward. It was times like these that she didn't simply wish to be with Rei, she wished to _be_ Rei, or all that the beautifully tragic boy stood for, really.

She had practiced it in the mirror, wrote down a draft –edited a hundred times over!- of what she would say to Ran: telling her why denim simply has never been and will not ever be her style choice. Every time a new pair of jeans had been offered into her grip however, the words had faltered on her lips and Ran's confident smile just seemed utterly so convincing and her own convictions so pointless…

When she tried them on and Ran was there throwing harmless catcalls and Miyu was there sweetening the air with sprinkles of compliments, Aya began to think that maybe she shouldn't spend so much time worrying what others thought, and should just enjoy the feeling because it _was_ aggressive and it _was_ outrageous. It was fun. She looked in the mirror and saw Miyu's compliments reflected back at her, and Ran's smile. She almost always bought the jeans.

It was only when she was home again, in her room and lacking in the string of kind words and wide grins that kept her shy smile in place, that she sometimes found her way to the mirror again. With only herself as judge and jury, she saw what she didn't want to see. The way the material puckered almost unnoticeably at her hip. The slightly awkward, angled look to her thighs, as if she were standing on a subtle incline. The way she was too skinny in some places, and too fat in others. She was a convulsing mass of gelatin and the rotting remains of a skeleton all at the same time and it seemed to Aya that there was no middle ground.

Needless to say it hurt.

She couldn't see how anyone could stand to look at her lower half, let alone speak nice words of it – _she_ certainly couldn't -, and it was times like these when she tore off her pair of horrid, malicious, wrathful jeans and promptly put on a skirt.

Then it all vanished. Ambiguity was hers again, draped around her legs in the form of a mild-colored fabric. People couldn't know now and they didn't need to know, and she liked it.

She could walk in shadow where the truth was her own and pairs of eyes couldn't pry her open like medical students might dissect a cadaver on a lab table.

Still, there were times when she put on those jeans, but to her it seemed more as if Ran wore them and called herself Aya, because Aya never felt quite like herself when she had them on. Those were the times when Ran and Miyu were smiling at her, Yuuya might sneak an approving glance when he didn't think anyone –read as Mami- was looking, and, if she was lucky, Rei might offhandedly throw out the words, 'You look nice.'

When they were all around her, surrounding her, supporting her, she almost felt like she could forget what she was and how she was. And she did, sometimes. For a few moments she let herself lose her own vision and gain another's eyes. They were warm, confident, and let Aya feel like she deserved honest smiles too.


	2. Tatsuki

A/N: Tatsuki was little harder for me to write than Aya, thus the shorter length of this one shot. Next up will most likely be Miyu and… Rei? Possibly, but I wouldn't exactly bet my dog on it.

* * *

**Tatsuki**

_Showboy: The performance of his lifetime_

It's not just a personality; it's a lifestyle.

His reality comes toward him in waves: what _should be_ comes crashing over him, trying to pull him deep into a place where expectations are what have to be lived, breathed, and died for, but, if he holds on long enough, endures hard enough, the infallible current retreats for a few precious moments and let him see the horizon of what _could be_. So far, the tides have had no luck in sweeping him away.

Sometimes he wonders how long it can last.

* * *

Tatsuki is a morning person, as well as an afternoon and evening person. One might say he's an all day person. But, really, it all starts in the mornings. The mood he sets himself up for from the moment he opens his eyes is most often the mood that will coast him through the day - give or take a few high bounds and dramatic tailspins. 

It all starts with the mornings and the mornings all start with the boxers.

Everything has to start somewhere, doesn't it?

His boxers tend to be as outrageous as he is. One might call it an extreme shade of honesty. And others still may call it just one more fluorescent mango to add to his fruity basket.

He's never quite understood what those other people were trying to say.

If he's feeling like an anvil couldn't even take him down that morning then it seems logical that his boxers should appear as bright and giddy as he is. If he's feeling like a cloud with a bad fluff day that morning then it's common sense that a rainstorm should be artfully pelted across the telltale cotton.

Admittedly, he may have a bit too many boxers compared to the average guy, but the amount he has fits his own personality to the degree of complete perfection! Oh_yes_, not just perfection, but perfection that sparkles with a neon shimmer that would continue to shimmer even in the darkest depths of the deepest, depthfilled cave of horror and untold abomination! - or so he tells the few souls brave enough to ask.

He gets his kicks from the small things, Tatsuki does. They're larger than life for him or, maybe, just as large as he thinks life should be.

Ran and he aren't just considered similar because of their love of the great deities of para and no homework.

Simply put, Kuroi Tatsuki throws himself boxers first into everything he does (unless it involves reading comprehension and/or number crunching, which, in that case, instead leads to him plowing _head_first into whatever hard surface is the shortest distance from his forehead), and maybe that way he can come out as amazing as his underwear spells him out to be.

With an apishly acrobatic jump timed for both feet to slide through at the same time, each day starts with the flamboyant shoving on of the boxers, and maybe, one of these days, they'll be put in just as flamboyant a situation with just as flamboyant a girl to take them off in such an flamboyant of a way.

He's saving his red-and-tan-striped pair for just that moment.

Really, he can wait.

* * *

He never stops because that is the only way to be sure to keep on going. Stopping would make him start thinking, _really_ thinking, and he hates _really_ thinking because it gives him doubts, and doubts give him insecurities, and insecurities make him look around, and looking around makes him _really_ see things, and _really_ seeing things makes the show a bit too hard and real until it almost isn't a show anymore and he is just a boy standing there on the side of the road looking at a reality that _really_ doesn't play by his rules just the same as he doesn't play by its rules. He just isn't ready to compromise and face it yet, he always tells himself. He will, someday, when he has to. Until then, he won't. 

The truest performers don't put on the shows for those around them.


End file.
